Some Acceptance with your Coffee?
by EcoWarriorX
Summary: Kurt reflects on his life and his happiness over a cup of Grande Non-Fat Mocha- and the significance of the drink is explained.


It's funny how much I like my coffee. When it's been made perfectly, like this, I kind of feel like a decent Grande Non-Fat Mocha is the most beautiful thing in the world.

I can even remember when I first started liking it- when I was thirteen, going through hell at high school, having spent a whole day being pushed around, chucked in dumpsters, slushied (twice!) and finally, having a note stuck to my back for nearly the whole day with a crude accusation scrawled over it. I can remember how pissed I was that even the teachers- aren't they meant to help you and support you and help you grow?- had neglected to mention that sticky note.

It had been a day even more crap, a lot more crap, than others, and all because I'd worn a Marilyn Monroe sweater the day before.

I felt so miserable after school that day that I couldn't bear the thought of going home and seeing Dad, and especially him seeing _me_ with red-and-blue slushy stains, eyes red from trying not to bawl like some baby and a permeating odor of rotting junk. He'd notice immediately and ask what was up, and I'd have to choose between pretending nothing was wrong, _again_, or telling him what the guys at school thought of me- and I couldn't bear that.

So I'd gone into town, not into the Lima Bean but into this tiny coffee shop- it's closed now- which I loved because of the beautiful decorating and the warm feeling to it.

I normally bought a hot chocolate, because whilst coffee sounded sophisticated and smelled delicious, I didn't really care for the bitter taste. This time there was a small queue, and I stood at the end of the line. I don't know when it hit me that the guys in front of me, two men, both stylishly dressed and looking classy, were- I'll never forget this moment- holding hands, casually.

I remember standing there, just gaping at them, before I remembered myself and stopped before I got caught staring. And those two guys just stepped up to the counter, and one of them said: 'My man here would like a plain vanilla coffee and I'd like a Grande Non-Fat Mocha.'

The woman behind the counter stared a little, but she said nothing and gave them their coffees and smiled like with anyone else. I was amazed, it was the first time I'd seen an openly gay couple in town and I wasn't expecting people to be so calm.

I got the same thing the man had had, and spent about half an hour just watching them talk, and hold hands, and smile at each other, and, once, kiss. When they left the shop I had to stop myself from running after them, asking what it was like, how they'd met, whether people minded- and for years afterwards I kind of wished I had. But from then on, it was always a Grande Non-Fat Mocha for me, kind of in remembrance of the day when I first discovered that what I felt was okay, was normal.

And this moment right now feels great, almost like I've come full circle- sitting in Breadstix, drinking that same drink with Blaine next to me and two wonderful ladies opposite, wonderful ladies now engaged, with people still smiling from across the room and mouthing congratulations. No one minds, no one cares, they've accepted it and moved on, and I remember the smiling lady from that tiny coffee shop all those years ago.

If only it could always be this easy. There was that shining moment when I was thirteen- and this one now- and there've been others, sure, coming out to Dad and telling the other guys and meeting Blaine and all those wonderful moments of knowing who I was and that people were okay with it.

But they're overshadowed still by memories of cramped, filthy dumpsters, of reeking armpits when I was shoved up against walls; of filthy looks and sneers and crude gestures and the crippling pain, over and over, of telling Dad I was fine and pulling a tough-guy attitude and trying to ignore them all, every one of them, teachers, students, strangers.

Me, being terrified for my life and having to transfer to Dalton; Blaine, having to back down against stronger bullies and leave his school, too; Santana, jeered at in the corridors and told by her grandmother to 'keep secrets secret'; David, mocked harshly until he tried to take his own life.

Watching the soon-to-be married couple hugging again and accepting congratulations from random strangers, I can't help thinking: Why not always? Is it so hard as all that to smile and accept and move on? I mean, I accept others when they dress badly and sing wrong and get fashion icons mixed up. Well, usually.

Blaine hands me another coffee, and even though we aren't together, I feel that tingle when his fingertips brush mine and I meet his warm, golden gaze. Images flash across my mind of dates and kisses and hand-holding, singing and dancing and acting, of the McKinley stage, the office at Vogue.

Yeah, it's been good, all in all. If only every kid were this lucky.


End file.
